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Paris Hilton Jail Diaries

    June 10th, 2007

    Paris Hilton, after attending Sunday’s MTV Movie Awards,
    was then off to the Century Regional Detention Facility
    in Lynwood. She is expected to serve about 23 days for
    violating her probation stemming from an alcohol-related
    driving charge. “I hope that I’m an example to other
    young people,” she told reporters.

    DAY 1: Arrived late Sunday night. So tired. Asked if I
    could check into my room immediately. Quite possibly the
    rudest concierge I have ever met. I told him he was
    fired. Not the effect I’d hoped for. And no, I did not
    register under the name “Little Miss Whore.” What kind of
    hotel forces you to strip and delouse (maybe Marriott?).
    Although instead of a robe I got a fabulous orange
    jumpsuit with a cute number on it. Nothing to do at
    night. I’m told (as there was, like, no information in my
    room) that there is no bar or lounge area. I wish I’d
    brought flats.

    Day 2: My room is insane! TINY! How is it even possible
    that I got a room without any view? A tiny stainless
    steel toilet. There is an incredibly thin mattress. If I
    didn’t know I was in prison I’d think I was in an Ian
    Schrager hotel.

    Day 3: So that’s what a bitch slap is. Wow. Just … wow.
    MUST remember not to make that sarcastic face again
    anytime soon.

    Day 5: Gandhi went to prison. So did Martin Luther King
    Jr. So did Robert Downey Jr. and Martha Stewart Jr. and I
    think Nelson Mandela Jr. Mandela was imprisoned for,
    like, 50 years or something for being black and also for
    driving an uninsured vehicle, if I’m reading Wikipedia
    correctly. Nicky often mentions me and Gandhi and how
    incredibly thin we both are and how she wonders if he
    used bronzer.

    Day 5, shortly before lights out: Must remember not to
    complain about lights out. Hope mother can contact a good
    dentist, as the whistling from where the tooth is missing
    is embarrassing as well as annoying.

    Several of us were talking after the movie tonight (”The
    Shawshank Redemption”) and one gal posed a question to
    the group: Would you crawl to freedom through a sewer
    pipe, like Tim Robbins’ character did? I would have
    answered “no” but was unfortunately bound and gagged
    (practical jokes are big in prison).

    Day 7: Mail today. One piece. A small note from Nicky
    that was actually a Xerox of a text message that her
    assistant put a stamp on and mailed. She wrote, “Ya know
    that band from a long time ago, 10,000 Maniacs? There
    were only, like, five people in that band.”

    Day 9: What is time? How do we measure it? What does it
    mean? I find these questions on my mind more and more,
    especially since someone stole my Audemars Piguet watch.

    Day 10: There is no TV, no iPod, no cellphone. Just — I
    hope I’m spelling this right — “boks” or maybe “bowks.”
    Whatever. I took a few from the cart and have been
    looking at the covers. Then, last night, I looked inside
    and there are, like, a million words, page after page.
    Are these new?

    Day 11: Jayne Mansfield spoke five languages. She was a
    concert-level pianist. Marilyn Monroe was a Formula One
    race car driver. Twiggy built her own home, raised guinea
    fowl and invented penicillin. Eleanor Roosevelt patented
    commercial air travel. And yet all of us played a role,
    the blond bimbo, the ditzy, fun-loving “party girl.”
    Roosevelt especially. But what’s to say I couldn’t be the
    first person to walk on the moon or be the first woman to
    go to college?

    Day 14: Yeats writes that the falcon cannot hear the
    falconer. What the hell? Is the falcon listening to a,
    like, falcon iPod or something? Also, what if the falcon
    was deaf? Did the falconer ever think of that? Also why
    “gyre?” Why not just say “swirling vortex?”

    Day 18: This “Jesus Christ” was an amazing guy. It’s so
    sad he died so young.

    Day 19: While walking in the yard today, I was put in the
    mind of Rilke’s “Requiem for a Friend.” “For somewhere an
    ancient enmity exists between our life and the great
    works we do.” This, I feel, is my plight. My life is in a
    constant struggle with my works: my “works” being staying
    out late and buying stuff. Also the word “enmity” is a
    hard one and looks misspelled to me.

    Day ??: I have stopped counting the days. I live in the

    What is freedom? It’s not free, that’s for sure. It’s
    “free” with “dom.” And that seems right to me. I feared
    prison once. I see it now as a great gift. Once, I
    wondered if I would have to wait in a chow line. Is there
    a way around the chow line, I wondered? A kind of “chow
    bouncer,” a chow doorman I might smile at as I breeze
    past on my way to steamed broccoli and fried bologna? How
    funny to think back. Because there is a chow bouncer. And
    her name is Brick. And she hates me.

    Joy is like steam from the kettle that the Mexican
    servants used to make me tea in the kitchen, wherever
    that was located in my former home.

    Lately I’m identifying with the Jews and all the horrible
    things that happened to them during Vietnam.

    Brick said to me today, “Ya know, I stayed in a Marriott
    once. And truth be told, I’d rather stay in prison.”

    We both laughed. And then she beat me up.
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